


boom, forreal

by mixture



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Casual use of telepathy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Graffiti, M/M, Social Commentary, Telepathy, aestheticism & instrumentalism, social politics, visual writing, way too many art references, writing within writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixture/pseuds/mixture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not about a quilt, but a galaxy of reality that has been exploded… so that everything is equal. Or, the story where everyone uses artwork as the vehicle for their (mutant) activism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [euphorbic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/gifts).



> I figured I should post it and keep going versus waiting for it all to be done, hah.

`**So, how do you feel about _The Blue Madonna_?**`

`The painting in question is a simple, straightforward portrait of Marilyn Monroe (instead of the other iconic figure, religious or otherwise) lifted from history as it was lifted from its original production. It emulates something that has already been done but everything has been done before and will go on until society collapses.`

`She’s small within the picture plane, surrounded by four feet of gold on each side. What makes her different from her origin work, other than the dimensions, is that instead of a Barbie-pink for flesh and neon yellow for hair, is that her skin is a dark blue, and the impression of scales on her forehead and cheeks. Her hair is a striking red, still in the perfect coifs of Monroe’s original images. The scales are faint from a distance, as they are played enough so that you can tell whom the person is, but yet coupled with the blue skin and red hair…`

`Monroe has been changed from a pop-icon into an other, though more precisely, a mutant. She has been morphed into a media darling shapeshifter, Raven Darkholme-Xavier, the artist’s sister. The fact that Darkholme-Xavier can actually change into Monroe is second, compared to the idea that in her natural mutated form, she can still be as glamorous and beautiful as the Hollywood icon.`

`“She’s done what she’s needed to do, I suppose,” and he offers no other explanation or elaboration.`

The sentiment causes a stranger to preen his feathers in second-hand pride as he reads on the train.

 

 

She can feel Charles, though she never had an experience with him before; telepaths have tells, which she knows somewhat intimately from time spent with Emma. He’s wearing his circlet to the opening, forgoing a complete suit for a waistcoat and slacks, almost as if he’s trying to paint himself as youthful, vulnerable. She understands his intentions; powers aren’t the only way to manipulate a public, after all.

His sister is beautiful, she thinks, watching the pair more than the work on the walls. Which isn’t to say that the work isn’t interesting, though after a while it becomes tired, and not particularly why she came to the opening in the first place. She knows how to keep to herself, to scope out the ‘competition,’ though Xavier’s anything but.

They have their different realms, never truly able to separate one’s self from their histories, but it’s important, she thinks, knowing that there’s something big from his easy smiles and his ability to reach others.

She keeps to the sidelines and wraps her thoughts up in silk, if there ever was a doubt.

 

 

The world continuously talks about his work and his identity, though they’re more interested in who he could be versus the truths he exposes. There’s something powerful about causing his fellow mutants to swell with emotion, particularly if they are one of those who are with spikes or those with fur, anything that immediately marks them as other in a way that isn't openly accepted by their ... dominant society. He's glad that he can make them happy or make them feel honored even if it is a small handful of mutants who look at his work fondly. His job is done when it reaches them, though there's something to be said about being able to _be_ so popular, so in the public's eye, to reach more than those who are able to physically see his work.

The work that he puts out into the world is akin to having his own children, they’re something he has nurtured and raised into something greater than himself.

Blue eyes and blond hair are so ordinary despite the fact that they seem to be the marker of the elite, the ‘better off,’ _superior_ , but yet they are mutations as well. Though how do you compare an under-developed pinky finger, easily removed after birth with a string to bone spikes that push through skin at any extreme emotion?

These are the things he ponders over as he makes new work, as he does research, as he takes off the role he's forced to play in public.

 

 

`What’s known about Xavier’s workshop is that it resides in the basement of his ancestral home. The different artists and craftsmen he employs are given free housing inside of the mansion if they so desire, in a wing designated solely for that purpose. Xavier provides much more than other artist workshops, contemporary or otherwise, understanding that the people that work for him are more than just employees. He gives them the tools to be artists in their own rights, keeping their workdays short so that they can access the studios for their personal use.`

`They work on his paintings and serigraphy, but Xavier’s hand is always present enough to make the work feel as if it is something he has created from scratch. He exposes his own screens, though his employees have coated them beforehand. Xavier mixes his own inks though he is not the one who pushes it through the screen. He’s taken to employing more people and designing his own blends of paper instead of purchasing from other mills. He employs as many mutants as he possibly can, which makes his message even more powerful.`

`Xavier’s office is scattered with scientific and art theory, combining a mass of interests into different projects. His goal is to combine the idea of every mutation being wonderful, and something that should be accepted in mainstream society. He points out even the smallest of mutations that society has either glossed over or elevated as the canon of beauty.`

`His youthful enthusiasm both towards community building and making work is what will make him special.`

 

 

Sebastian is a necessary evil, Charles has realized, preferring to work with a fellow mutant, though Sebastian's primary work isn’t even within the art institution, but— he has a single-mindedness about success that makes him the best choice.

It makes more sense to be represented by those of his own kind, though he does understand how it makes him something of a niche. But his contract also allows him to maintain representation from human galleries since Sebastian knows about being profitable. The only gripe he finds is that Sebastian is not shy about his thoughts on telepathic suppression, despite the fact that he's not a psionic and shouldn't regulate other people's abilities.

Sebastian is as paranoid as those who are adamantly anti-mutant and anti-psionic, and it takes a toll on Charles’ emotions if not his mind; it's a different type of stress to always make sure that he's wearing his circlet when he goes to meet with Sebastian, despite having someone come along with him. It settles strangely in the pit of his stomach, having to hide himself from another mutant with invisible abilities. Darwin tends to help him out in this area, coming along to offer a second opinion as well as use his power to draw in any unintentional wandering, making lines and mazes that lead his tendrils towards Darwin's mind instead of Sebastian’s.

He’s thankful for the mail, for direct deposit, for only seeing the man primarily through functions... though he’d never admit it to anyone willingly.

 

 

Charles isn’t sure how he feels about _The Blue Madonna_ anymore, though is glad that Raven takes it in stride. It was a sort of homage, not only to those who look different, but to her as an individual, a way to show how much he treasures her for her entirety.

He had always intended it to be a declaration of how he saw her, beautiful no matter what face she had, though the most spectacular in her own frame. She’s given him so much, and nothing can say anything stronger about how he feels, of how high he elevates her no matter what should be happening at the time—

He isn’t sure about how he feels about the article, other than it is more press and more exposure. The quality of writing is good, and there is a neutral tone… but he’s just glad that it is done.

 

 

He adjusts his tie as he stands in front of the crowd, slightly nervous as always; the emotions are set back, almost as if he is truly divided from everyone else with the circlet and medication working to the best of their abilities.

It is somewhat upsetting that this is what he needs to do in order to establish credibility, even when he’s merely talking about his work, but he pushes the thought aside as he reminds himself to be thankful for the turnout. There seems to be a decent chunk of new people he has never seen before, and definitely new people with visible mutations, and he makes a mental note to talk to them as soon as he can.

"Our society is bombarded with images, whether we know it or not. Depending on their origin, particularly if they are created from the society we are immersed in, they can be completely constructed from the voices of a few and match those same few's views or appearances. However, as we look around at each other, we're all different, even if we _are_ related to one another.

"My goal as a visual artist is to highlight these differences, to flood the media with images of _every_ type. Skin color is one thing, though not to detract from that separate issue, but when you see a fellow human being with fur or claws or spikes we tend to forget that they are just like us, unless we find ourselves in those appearances that are readily marked as an other. 

"Those whom we instantly regard as better than, such as certain celebrities or what have you, can be easily humanized. Their appearances are no different than ours in which their bodies contain particular mutations that are seen as the preferred status, such as hair or eye color. Why is that any different than if someone has a tail or red skin? 

"I want to change these perceptions of mutants, of fellow _human beings_ , to make them as common as those who are baseline, or those with invisible mutations."

The crowd gives him applause as he finishes, and he smiles graciously. It feels as if his circlet is buzzing with energy, though he can’t pinpoint _why_.

 

 

There’s something of an uproar a couple of days after the article comes out, in which the internet buzzes with gossip about the newest Magneto tag;

`_The Blue Madonna_ has been rendered in a surprisingly large scale, but only in black and blue compared to the original. The scales that compose Xavier’s version are outlined in black, and her skin is a pale robin’s-egg blue. The red that would normally be the color of her hair is now the color of the text over her face,`

`~~an alternative 2~~ playing art  
w/the ‘radical chic’ sect  
on Daddy’s $$$ funds`

And Charles finds that he’s not so much angry at the fact that his work has been criticized, but the fact that it was about _Raven_.


	2. Chapter 2

The only things that Charles makes from scratch are postcards. There’s something fun and playful about working small scale; it fits for random outings with his sister. The size is easy to handle in an artistic sense, easy to bundle up with her iPad, or sneak into her purse, and she’s taken it as another aspect of spending time with him. _Brother must stay relevant in his field_ , she occasionally throws to him with a smile, “he must keep his hands busy.” She understands enough, if he’s keeping himself physically busy, he’s more likely to stay within his own head. 

But she gives him a haven within her own mind, a niche carved out specifically for him.

“Did you read about the new Magneto piece?”

She nods from behind her tablet, typing something; he’s keeping to himself as he works in a red pencil, so he’s not sure of her true reaction. 

“I’m sorry.”

She looks up at this, “Why?”

“Because you’re lovely and don’t deserve such public scrutiny. Particularly because of me.”

There’s a stare leveled at him, and he can feel it both mentally and physically. He looks up from his drawing as she gives him a sarcastic eye roll. “I’m already stuck dealing with ‘public scrutiny’ without you pushing me further into it,” he starts to apologize but she cuts him off before he can start, “and, _and_ just because they say crap about me doesn’t mean I think they’re right. 

“And it’s obviously a jab at _you_ and not _me_.”

And it makes _sense_. _What did I do to deserve such a beautiful and smart sister?_

“I’m not sure,” as she goes back to – ah – the article she’s reading about fashion, “but you can always repay me by rubbing my feet later.”

He smiles. “Anything you want.”

 

 

Xavier, he finds, is irritating in almost everything that he sets his mind to do. 

 

 

The sensation is strange, almost as if the circlet is trying to warn him of something. But he continues on with the night, as he must. Charles makes a point to discuss his work as much as he can; there’s no sense skipping out on an opportunity to make his vision clear, to possibly change someone’s mind for the better.

He understands if people still don’t get it, or if they refuse what they see for anything but an aesthetically pleasing image, or overall _trash_. It goes with the territory, after all.

 

 

The wonders of having a mutation in which not many people are knowledgeable about – both the mutation itself and that he has it – is that he is afforded a level of anonymity that he wouldn’t be able to possess were he merely human. He has an edge to making his work, being able to wield spray paint at distances, to make his mark amongst other people but not be suspected, to have no physical evidence of his activities stain his hands.

It took years of practice to become proficient with detail work, or at least, be able to write words that were legible at a distance. It took effort and a large amount of training to understand how to make the metal at his disposal turn into sheets, and into stencils. No one expects to see such things so high up in the middle of the night, and he’s learned to watch his surroundings and predict which day and hour will give him the largest amount of uninterrupted work time.

Drunken people at three in the morning are less suspicious; they’re not concerned with looking up, let alone noticing large sheets of metal morph around the skyline.

Angel is his partner in a variety of ways; being able to fly gives her an advantage to showing him places that would work best for his message. She makes sure to take photos in order to give him an idea as to what he’s working with, in order to do it by instinct instead of sight. 

She’s pleasing to the eye and can handle her own, though he loves her for her wit the most. He enjoys pulling her against his body, blending in with the masses while his mind is extended to his task. It’s intimate without being sexual, and he appreciates her for her everything.

“I shouldn’t even do this for you anymore,” she laughs as she strokes the lines of his face. “There’s this one guy I’ve been looking at for a while. I think he’s noticed me back.”

The act of tagging has become erotic over time, unable to separate the idea of the spray can moving along to Angel casually grinding against his body. He curses her for it every time, since she’s had practice at making it inconspicuous. “You know that your work at this point is just an excuse to make out. Because it seems like that’s all that we do now. Make out. I’m not complaining though.”

He snorts as he traces the line of her tattoo, purely to make her shiver since she’s wearing a deliciously low-cut tank. “Would you rather I do this all alone? Because that seems somewhat unfortunate that you don’t want to be here as your work is realized.”

She smacks his hand away, and he grins, knowing that she could so much worse to him at that moment in time. “Honey, we know who this is about. Though I suppose I could say thank you for remembering that this isn’t a one mutant show.”

 

 

`**Do you think the art-world is ready for telepathic artists?**  
“[laugh] To ask that is to ask if the world at large is ready for telepaths.”`

`The issue has been a hot topic with the emergence of Xavier as a powerhouse within the art-world. He has the power to change the course of the movement, to centralize himself within the history books as long as he’s within range of those who call the shots within this industry. There seems to be no rules set, but then again, how can rules be made when he’s the first of his kind?`

`Xavier doesn’t allow the speculation behind his motives and powers hold him back from mingling with the appropriate crowds, or to force him to be absent from his own show openings. It is as if his upbringing hasn’t been ignored for the sake of other people’s sense of security; he’s found wherever progress and innovation can be found.`

`The only thing that keeps Xavier safe is his dedication to neutering himself for others; he makes a point to show people that he’s taken his suppressants, or wear an unobtrusive circlet, but what makes these things real? Does anyone really even know the extent of Xavier’s powers, let alone his intentions?`

 

 

Erik squeezes Angel’s breasts as her wings flutter against his chest, enjoying the feel of them against his bare skin. He’s hesitant to pull away, but follows through with the idea, bending over enough to lick at where they meet the flesh of her back, pinching her nipples as he traces her spine. Her wings flutter and smack the sides of his head, and he snorts when she yells, “You’re not fucking fair!”

“I wish I could keep you like this,” he breathes against her skin, anxious to thrust inside of her but also to draw her pleasure solely with his hands. He nips at the back of her neck drawing his hands away from her breasts and down to her pelvis. He strokes at her trembling thighs, rubbing against her mound, fingering her clit as he rocks slowly into her.

“You should probably hide your wings. Wouldn’t want to damage them, after all.” The sensation of limbs becoming a surface decoration once more is like a caress, a breeze she has control over, he's certain that's how she described it to him before. It’s strange to feel it second hand, as if it were a phantom limb, but it’s more than perfect to have her rest her full weight against him without fear of pain or injury.

He pushes her over to lie down on the bed, pinning her down with his weight, reveling in her squeal.

He makes her come until she kicks him away.

 

 

Angel lounges with Emma in her pristine apartment, as per usual with their third Fridays. There’s a rush of cold, though gentle, as they slot into each other for the night. “You should make art that can sell. I can always find you buyers.” Angel feels a sudden tingle at the top of her skull, and cuts a glare at the telepath as it trickles through her body. The trigger is usually welcome and soothing, but not when Emma _wants_ something. “Why don’t you ask Erik instead of me?”

“Because you know how he is about his privacy, sugar.”

Angel huffs, and settles in the chair she’s claimed for the night. “And I’m not picky about my own? Why would I ruin the thing I have already?” It works best for her needs, after all.

“And, because I know you’re going to say it, I’d be going from him to you, no matter how little your influence. And that’s not fair to me at all.”

She’s glad that Emma lets it drop, though the silence feels strange.

“I just think you should do something for yourself. That's it.”

 

 

But for the smaller things, he enjoys working by himself. 

Her wings are still insectoid, but different from the dragonfly ones that point directly to his best friend. She sits, naked, but not graphic, head thrown back in ecstasy, just as he remembers. She holds her own arrow, tipped with fire, pressed against her chest and piercing her flesh.

Her wings carry her above ground, as he places her on the top of the highest building he can find next to a Catholic church. Her ecstasy is just as important as Saint Teresa’s, though he’s not conceited enough to claim that he’s G-d.

It’s worth her smile, when she sees it in person, her arm wrapping around his waist as she wears as many layers as possible over her tattoos.

It’s even more than worth it when it’s never painted over.

 

 

She’s lying if she said that she didn’t feel anything because of that damn tag.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so I just want to say thanks to everybody (particularly Tahariel and Subtilior for their recs) for the responses and encouragement. I usually try to write in a vacuum so that I can finish it, but reader response made me think of and address things that I either couldn't see or couldn't figure out (and also made this fic longer, which I'm not sure if it's a good thing or not, hah).  
>    
>  ~~I'm going to go scream in a pillow some more (omg).~~

`**What do you like about working in Xavier’s workshop?**  
It’s nice, to say the least [laugh]. He makes sure to take care of us as individual people while we work on his stuff… It’s kind of like a give and take. I mean, I’ve already seen that article about the workshop already and don’t want to throw him out there…`

`**Well, no one would want to throw their employer under the bus.**  
He knows I’m here, and gave this interview his blessing. But, it isn’t _my_ shop, you know? [shakes head] Anyway. To actually answer your question: I think it’s the sense of community, you know, it’s more than just artists, more than mutants, ‘cause it’s both. No one really cares if I dip my hand into ferric chloride or nitric acid, but they know enough about my circumstances that if something does go wrong, if they notice something’s wrong, they know how to respond to it.`

` **Muñoz makes large-scale lithographic prints, relying on mark making through his mutation. He primarily uses his scales as a way to move the greasy drawing substance around the stone and his claws to etch back in for reductive areas. Muñoz works with his own papers and inks, separated from the stock of Xavier’s workshop, though there is reason to believe that Xavier only has a lithography press and appropriate size stones because of Muñoz’s needs. One can speculate how much Xavier pays by the cost of Muñoz’s supplies; an 8”x10”x3” limestone costs $120 second hand, and the stones in the workshop are much larger and supposedly thicker than that.** `

`Xavier gives me the freedom to be my own person. Actually, he makes it so that everyone finds things they excel at. One of my coworkers, Hank, can’t do much hands-on things because of his fur, but he develops a lot of chemicals and plant blends for papermaking that fits Xavier’s needs.`

`**Would you say that you’d be a successful artist without Xavier’s help?**  
It’s a beneficial relationship, which I can’t say for most day-job employers. Being an artist is hard, and just because you have the drive or talent, doesn’t mean you’re gonna make it. It does boil down to who you know, and maybe I’d have some success, maybe not, but to this scale? I doubt it.`

`Xavier gives us the time and resources for our personal work, because he knows that if we’re motivated in our own right, we’ll return the favor when it comes to working on his projects. He’s kind of like the older brother you never really knew you had but glad you do. I can always apply to residencies and work that way, but that doesn’t mean I always have access to what I need. I’m done experimenting; I’ve done my undergrad. I’m provided a stable workshop and the means to work in a way that doesn’t cause burnout. `

 

 _This is what I have so far_ , the note says at the bottom, _but not sure where to go with it. Loyalties, you know how it is._

Emma makes sure to send a surge of satisfaction in Angel’s direction.

 

 

“ _The Mutated Fifteen_ sounds like a good name.”

 

 

“ _You_ only go to openings to schmooze, yes, I know, but why don’t you just walk up to Xavier and introduce yourself? I know what you’re doing, you know what you’re doing, and _he_ knows what you’re doing… even if he’s not sure who you are!”

Erik takes a sip from his cup, ignoring her quip. But they both watch from the corners of their eyes as the man in question adjusts his tie for the third time before taking it off completely. “Does it get you hot to see him squirm?”

“I’m not the one sashaying in front of him, now am I?”

“How the fuck else am I supposed to get to the booze or the bathroom in this crowd?”

He snorts. “You can always hold it. Or wear one of those incontinence pads.”

She gets really close, and he makes sure to move his arms out of the way so that she could press her body against his if she wanted. But she’s serious as she tips her head up to keep eye contact, brow furrowed as if she were extremely upset.

“I fucking hate you sometimes.”

He stifles his laugher as she backs away.

 

 

“You know… Sometimes I think you guys go a little overboard just to inflate his ego.” Raven taps her foot against the leg of her chair as she gestures around the table, and he can feel the minute vibrations from her fidgeting. “Maybe it’s just you, Darwin, because don’t you shut him out all the time?”

Darwin scoffs as he lifts up his burger. “It’s not intentional and you know it,” he says before he takes a bite, thinking about the interview in question. He pauses, chewing, but Raven and Hank are interested in their own food as much as their conversation.

“I do need to say sorry, Hank, and that I hope you’re okay with what I said. It was a dick move to single you out like that, and I didn’t think about it until it was over.”

Hank shrugs as he pushes his glasses up on his face with one well-placed claw. “You didn’t say anything untrue, nor did you out me. It could have been worse, I suppose.”

 

 

“I’m not sure if I like this.”

She throws a photo across her desk at him, and he barks out a laugh when it gets closer. “It isn’t my fault,” he drawls, showing as many teeth as possible without being overly flashy, “they’re always a joint effort… a collaboration, if you will.”

He knows she wants to retaliate, but they always fight on a _quid quo pro_ basis, and the situation at hand isn’t serious enough for anything but empty threats.

The photo she had thrown at him, he already knows about. He picks it up for decorum, inspecting it with mock scrutiny. The image depicts a brick wall with a depiction of anti-telepathy headsets in a circle, as if making a large flower with how they bow out from their center point. Medicine bottles are nestled between each circlet, emblazoned with equal arm crosses that merely look like a lopsided _x_ depending on the bottle in question.

There’s a block of simply written text within the circle, which is enough on its own, but even more, or at least to why Emma has a problem since…

`~~(restraints)~~  
as a result of  
overexposure...`

… there’s a diamond underneath _overexposure_.

“What if I said it was her idea?”

“I can believe it either way. I’m surprised that the two of you haven’t settled down yet. Why don’t you just get married and pump out a couple of mutants?”

He throws the photo back to her side of the desk. “Are you just mad because Sebastian won’t go down on you anymore?”

She frowns, livid, though not any more than they usually are towards each other. “I won’t hesitate to give you a migraine that lasts for the next month.”

“I’ll make sure that your diamonds fall out of every piece of jewelry you own.”

They end their talk that day on a stalemate.

 

 

He was bred into hosting extravagant events, so what’s a modern day happening if it isn’t a large gathering of people?

 

 

They're walking through Sebastian's gallery with a different artist on display. After a quick walkthrough of the space, on the start of their second and more thorough time through, she wonders out loud: "Why do people think it's a good idea to stretch paper?"

Emma laughs at the remark, despite her agreement. "You stretch paper for watercolor, right?"

"Those paintings go under glass. Or if you're _not_ an idiot, you mix it with matte medium so you don't have to frame it. This is neither."

The works in question are photos of remnants of physical mutations next to very fine scientific drawings. The photos are printed on the drawing paper, and where one element ends, the other starts. Angel is fond of the work, and wonders how the artist would go about detailing her wings, but the presentation keeps her from complete engagement. 

“Maybe it's not meant to be archival?” 

Angel can’t dismiss that question quite as easily. It helps that Emma is genuinely interested about learning _why_ the work bothers her.

“There's a big difference between intentionally making choices for your work and having a liability with the intent of selling it to people. If - and I do mean _if_ \- someone buys this work, they'd have to stabilize it somehow, or else it'll rot in a few years. Who wants to pay for a work and then spend the same amount of money making it something that'll last past five years?”

It’s a very pointed comment, and Emma ignores it for what it really is as they continue to work their way through the gallery, much to Angel’s irritation.

 

 

“Ever thought we should do video art?”


End file.
